


the reanimation affair

by chii



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Multi, Other, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chii/pseuds/chii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the middle of a mission, they start sharing a bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the reanimation affair

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in years so this is admittedly not particularly good but I'd rather have written it and gotten it out of my head than yelled for years about it on twitter. Also I saw the movie yesterday and really need to see it a second time but if I waited this wasn't going to get put out since PAX is in a few days. So a one night writing spree seemed like a great idea.
> 
> BASICALLY: back in the original show, there was an episode where a bunch of Nazis kidnapped Solo because they thought his blood was going to be useful in bringing back Hitler and reanimate him. This sounded appropriately absurd, and I was on about one hour of sleep SO UHH, HAVE A FIC? All mistakes are my own, I've looked at this too many times and will look at it once more in the morning and probably see I did something wrong.

After Istanbul, there’s Albania. After Albania, another, and another, and another until there’s the United Kingdom - specifically, London. They’ve a brief respite before starting the next task: a full night and some of the morning left to lick their wounds and get some sort of sleep before the next day begins. 

_It ought to be easy_ , they’re told, and Illya barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. She sees it, watches the way the corner of his lips pull just so and wonders when she started noticing these things so quickly. _Easy_ , is repeated like it’s a warning - don’t foul this one up, _no bodies, if you can help it, thank you_ , and they’re given the necessary information and left to their own devices in the hotel room. 

It _ought_ to be easy. They head to London to talk to a doctor- someone working on something related to the Nazis in Germany. There’s not much to go on, just a name and a location, but it’s enough. 

Unsurprisingly, it isn’t easy. Just as unsurprisingly, there’s a hitch. 

Gaby’s quickly learning that with the way things go around here - with who is involved, there’s always a hitch. Sometimes it’s little, something barely worth noting until it nearly blows up in their face and Napoleon lords it over them that he’s _caught_ it and isn’t he terribly impressive while everything is exploding. American showmanship: it’s rather ridiculous, all things considered. If he wanted to be _really_ pleased with himself, he’d catch things before there was a hitch they had to adjust around, with singed hair and smoke heavy in the air. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a hiccup that they adjust around. Those times are few and far between.

She’s said as much and watched him grin, slow and easy, blinking wide eyes up at her like he’s innocent. _There wouldn’t be any fun in that_ , Napoleon offers airily, waving his glass of wine. He’s settled into the room like he owns it, lounging in a chair like some great, lazy cat.

It doesn’t work on her, just like it doesn’t on Illya, but she’s not a fool. Napoleon is a flashy thing, all show and flair - sometimes for their benefit, but mostly for his own. Napoleon’s charm might not woo them into mindlessly cooperating, but she doesn’t miss the way that Illya’s eyes track him across the room as he putters about, hanging up a suit, smoothing the edges. Once, she would have said it was the way a predator tracks prey, sharp eyes and a sharper smile to go with it. 

Now, she knows better. 

Illya watches Napoleon carefully, like he doesn’t know what to make of him so he hides himself behind his pride and his sharp edges so if they cut themselves, it’s on them and not on him. He watches her like a man wandering the desert, parched and searching for water. 

It’s flattering, on some level - their introduction to each other wasn’t exactly normal, but on another she’s wary. They need to work together and they do work together, quite well. She wouldn’t quite call it good team dynamics, because that implies a level of competence they’ve yet to achieve but it’s worth something all the same. 

As it is, though, they’re pushing boundaries already. Somewhere in the middle of one of the missions - some horrendous little hotel U.N.C.L.E. paid too much for - they stop a terrorist from bombing a church and an odd thing happens. She’s not sure how, or why, or any number of important questions that someone working for MI5 should have asked; it had just… _happened_. There was only one bed and despite how broad both the men were, they could easily fit all three of them. It smelled a little musty, but given the day they had, there’d been minimal talking and mostly exhausted, half-assed banter back and forth until they’d all eased into the bed and fallen asleep with minimal fuss. That alone was a miracle.

They hadn’t mentioned it in the morning and managed to steadfastly avoid mention of it each subsequent time that it happened. They ought to have made an Olympic sport of it, really, with how practiced they got at acting as if it were business as usual, even when arms were wrapped around bodies and physical reactions became harder to hide.

In the middle of the night - London, again- it builds up like a cup holding too much water and spills over. It starts with a few too many drinks, Illya grumbling about how he’s going to have to put both of them to bed this time and Napoleon leans in close, cuts a smirk and says, _Yes, Peril, why_ don’t _you._

It doesn’t matter who kisses who- that's what starts this. All that matters is that it’s fast and clumsy and not nearly as good as she knows it _can_ be. They’re all too tired and sore to make it terribly good, but there’s something to be said for fumbling around like teenagers. In the morning, things go back to how they were, save for the three cracked vases and a broken coffee table. Illya tries halfheartedly to put it in some sort of pile but the broken legs keep rolling off and he stops to the sound of Napoleon’s laughter. 

It’s something born of necessity so they don’t spend long mulling over it, but some days, Gaby wonders if avoiding it is really the right option. There’s no telling how intimacy - real intimacy, not drunken, wandering hands - would change what they have now. Would it be for the better, or for the worst? She likes to think she’s rather realistic like that, but were she really realistic, she wouldn’t even consider it. _It’s unprofessional_ , she hears in her own head; it sounds like Waverly, which makes her grimace.

Napoleon would consider it, though. He does, right then and there. They haven’t addressed it, haven’t talked about it, but here, in the hotel room, they could. She can watch him do the math as if he’s calculating it out loud and he gives her a moment to opt out; when she doesn’t, he proceeds. He pours three glasses despite them both knowing that Illya won’t drink any, and carries them over in one hand, fingers dipped along the inside to hold them gently together. They’re placed on the coffee table and one is skidded across it toward her; Illya leans over the extra bit and nudges it the last touch further toward her so she doesn’t have to go too far to grab it. 

“One glass?” Illya’s tone is dry and he carefully doesn’t look at either of them, because it’s aimed at both of them. 

“ _Please_ , this is just to start,” Napoleon drawls right back, and settles into the ridiculous armchair at the other end, opposite of her. He shakes the bottle and then nestles it in his lap. “It’s compliments of the hotel, why would we waste it?”

He stretches long legs out and curls one hand loose over the carved wood arm of the chair, the other idly tilting the glass back and forth so the liquid sloshes from side to side but never spills. Every inch of him is on display and he knows it, has planned for it. He shifts one foot to the side so it’s a clear vee from his feet to his hips just for the way that Illya’s eyes catch there and then drag up to the two undone buttons by his loosened tie. They travel from that, to the easy way his hand rests on the arm of the chair, idly thumbing the wood. It’s meant to be noticed, so Gaby keeps her eyes locked on his after seeing it and looks unimpressed even as she knocks back a mouthful and feels the burn of it. 

“Airing yourself out? Searching for a breeze? I could open a window,” Gaby suggests, giving him innocent eyes right back. When the glass touches wood again, half empty, there’s a line of red lipstick shining stark against the gold; she lifts a finger to the corner of her mouth and swipes it neat again, well aware that _both_ Illya and Napoleon track the movement. 

_So it’s going to be like this_. They’re both weighing the same things that she is and while she thinks Napoleon would probably act on it given the chance, she also doesn’t relish the idea of leaving things like this up to him. Saving the world, or a country, or a target - yes, she trusts him to get that done. Treating Illya with the caution required to get what all three of them want? No, not so much. 

“Why _did_ the hotel send us this?” she asks after a beat of hesitation, trying to recall who gave them the key and told them they would be sending up something, complimentary. It was a man, not a woman - which didn’t mean much, given Napoleon could turn the charm on at any given moment. Still, he hadn’t really at that point, but it didn’t truly matter. She shoves the thought aside, waves off the question before Napoleon can answer it. Rather than speak, she knocks the rest of of the liquor back in time with Napoleon’s own movement, their glasses clinking on the wood in tandem. There’s a brief moment where her eyes and Napoleon’s meet and she smirks, neatly stealing Illya’s glass just as Napoleon’s fingers twitch for it. “Shouldn’t you be faster?” 

“I’m as fast as I need to be,” Napoleon murmurs and from the corner, Illya gives a little snort of laughter.

“I’m sure.” Illya tosses out and rises to get himself a glass of water, instead. 

“No audience participation, if you please.”

Illya quiets and Gaby makes the decision for all of them before she changes her mind. This time, it’s her show, as she stretches her legs out, lets her ankles cross and sips at the glass on her thigh once it’s lifted from the table. It’s just as she goes to open her mouth that Illya glances between the two of them and-- well. His expression goes funny, just a moment. It’s not much, just a twist of his lips and the faint furrow of his brow. Realization slides over his face and his fingers twitch. She really needs to play poker with him if his tell is this obvious, she thinks, and then realizes that he’s put one and two together, but _didn’t_ get three despite the last few months.

“I am not thirsty,” Illya’s voice is forced even, but gravel rough.He stands fast enough that the chair squeaks out its protest when it slides across the wood floor.

If she checks in the morning, she’s certain she will find scratches in the wood. When she looks to Illya again, it’s to the realization that he isn’t angry as she first thought. He’s hurt, not angry. Gaby stands as quickly as she can manage while in the heels, proud when she doesn’t catch them on the carpet; her ankle still aches from the spill she’d taken running after one of the men she’d caught earlier. There’s a matching scratch on her knee, mostly hidden by the flow of the dress, though it still aches like hell when she moves. 

One final glance between the two of them and Illya makes like he’s going to leave.

There’s two ways she could play this. The initial, she’s fairly certain would work well enough, but is terribly cliche and has the possibility of making things worse not better if Napoleon mistakes it for her going to Illya and leaving him alone. _Men_ , she thinks, frowning. The other requires more talking than she really wants to do, so she chooses the middle option, and plants both feet down solidly and stands right in his way.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Napoleon’s eyebrows go up; he pours himself a fresh glass and smirks and then takes it a step further with a mocking little salute as he watches. “Oh, thank you for your help,” Gaby snaps, and takes a step to block Illya when he tries to step around her. There’s no missing the way his eyes roll skyward, like a silent plea to help him from the tiny, angry thing standing in his way.

“Mm, I don’t know, you do seem to have it under control,” Napoleon drawls and goes back to tipping the glass back and forth. “Though, there’s something to be said for how he could just pick you up and move you, if he wanted. You _do_ remember when he tore off a chunk of my car?” 

“Is replaceable,” Illya mutters just as Gaby retorts with, “ _My_ car, you mean.” 

But that isn’t helping, not when Illya is gritting his teeth, shoulders rolled tight, defensive. Still, he’s right that Illya could toss her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“But you won’t.” This part, to Illya, who’s caught between glaring at Napoleon like he’s revealed a secret that he doesn’t want out there and to Gaby, who even in heels _could_ be moved with barely the slightest effort from him. She’s seen how strong he is, how fast he can move - she has no illusions that he could move her. She also doesn’t say that that’s an appealing thought. She most assuredly does not think about how that might be something to explore later; this hotel room is so nice, it’d be a shame to wreck it and that is what would be bound to happen. 

“I am _here_ ,” Illya snaps to remind both of them and she watches the anger slide over him like a blanket, like a cloak, watches him tug it tight around him, defensive. His grip on it shudders when she reaches up and nudges his hat off so it falls to the ground with a noise that’s downright loud in the quiet of the room. 

Before he can say anything else, she gathers up her determination and uses a little of that liquid courage (from now, and from the glass and a half of wine at dinner) and hooks her fingers into Illya’s collar. She won’t move for him; she’ll make him dip down for her because he’ll do it. Anger might make him one long line of tension, but in the last few weeks she’s _learned_ and it’s an easy thing to tug him down when he bends so easily to just a few fingertips. The world starts to go warm around the edges - whatever the hotel sent, it’s lovely- and she tilts her head up, looks at him. There’s nothing coy about it, nothing teasing; it wouldn’t do them any good here, not with him staring at the both of them as if he’s ready to bolt or hit something - or both. No, she opts for straightforward - leans up and in and presses her lips to his, dry save for the touch of liquor on her lips. 

He doesn’t run, which is a plus. 

Napoleon doesn’t say anything, which is a _miracle_ , but Illya’s still watching her like he’s waiting for a trap, for her to laugh and push him back and say _no, just kidding._ She can feel his breath on her lips, his eyes focused, sharp on hers and she leans up again. He shifts to accommodate, some of the tension bleeding out. They didn’t really kiss much the first time they did this, she realizes. This time, she intends to fix that oversight. His hands slide up over her shoulders, positively chaste, really, but they’re cool against her skin and she feels goosebumps rise in their wake. It’s still a light kiss; she laughs gently into it and tugs him a little harder, flicks her tongue over his lip and when he parts them, smiles and murmurs _still cold_. It’s worth it for the way Illya tenses and then makes a noise suspiciously like a laugh against her lips, too. That, she’ll take. There are rough edges that surround Illya, but if she can smooth them down just a little bit, chase the hunted look out of his eyes, she will. 

All in all, she’d call it rather successful. It is, to a point - all the way up until she hears a tinkling of glass from what sounds like down a tunnel. It’s odd; the cool press of Illya’s hands grounds her and for a moment, the world is syrup-thick, a little hard to think around. Her brows furrow, mind trying to comprehend exactly what’s going on and it makes sense just as soon as she sees Napoleon list bonelessly out of the chair, slithering to the ground in a heap to join the glass he dropped.

“Oh.” It’s the only word she can manage, more a strangled exhale as her tongue feels too thick for her mouth and the world tilts sideways, abruptly. 

The last thing she’s aware of is Illya drawing his gun in a rush, grabbing the front of her dress with one large hand so her head doesn’t knock the table, and then nothing but the slow lick of darkness over her vision.

_________________________________

Gaby wakes with the very irritating, very sober thought of _we should have looked into the bottle_. They’re all idiots and if this costs them their lives, she’s going to be extremely cross - with Napoleon most of all, but with herself, too.

Her second thought, is that someone is making soft pain noises down the hall and she can’t tell who it is. It takes a few moments for her vision to adjust to the dark, dingy room, but when it does, her hearing comes with it. The man making isn’t down the hall - he’s across the room and after a moment of squinting, she realizes it’s Napoleon. There’s blood on his teeth, in his mouth, but he isn’t screaming and whatever they’re doing, she can’t make out terribly well in the lighting. It seems to hurt, though, judging by the sharp intake of breath. “Usually, my dates buy me dinner before getting that intimate,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a slur. _Split lip, still recovering from the drugs in the drink_ , she thinks, cataloging all of it. 

It feels like cotton is jammed in her mouth; it’s too dry to manage much of anything, but after a few moments of soft, slow breathing she manages to work up enough spit that she can lick her lips and swallow without it being an entire mess. It tastes awful, but chases the dryness. There’s a man standing over Napoleon, words being spoken softly but she can’t make them out; she doesn’t need to, not when he abruptly turns and walks over to her, shooting off a string of words in German, but it’s too fast, angry and ugly for her sluggish mind to wrap around. She catches some - _Hitler_ , and he’s angry that they’ve come here, wants to know who sent them. “If you think I’m an expensive date, you won’t get anywhere with her.” Napoleon shifts, strains against the chains binding his arms behind him. He’s trying to draw the attention back to him, the idiot, but she understands why. If they think she’s helpless, they won’t focus on her and she has a better chance of getting them out. Illya’s location is also important and unfortunately unknown - she does not think about how if they were taken, he may be dead. He’s survived too much so far for something so sloppy to take him down. . 

They -- whoever they are, have stripped off all of her jewelry, down to her dress and heels and her hair is an utter mess, but they’ve missed things. “Really, now; the tiny stature is misleading, she’s a mean little thing under everything, but ultimately not-” 

The man doesn’t seem to appreciate Napoleon’s rambling and from the looks of it, he’s not going to take it out on him but on her. There’s half a moment to react when she sees him pull back- to twist her head to dodge some of the force of the blow that strikes her, splits her lip and leaves her ears ringing. 

Napoleon hisses but stops talking, and the man starts speaking in German again, but she can’t make it out over the rush of blood in her ears. She catches the tail end of it, hears him threaten to kill her first - he calls her Napoleon’s lover and isn’t that a little bit amusing. “You will speak,” he grits out in German, and then again in English, just For Napoleon’s benefit. Apparently that was enough - a threat, she supposes, and then the man leaves them in the cell with the promise that he’s coming back and he’ll have his answers. 

She tries for words and finds it’s too hard with her mind still jumbled from the drugs, but unsurprisingly, Napoleon talks for her. “So, evidently, the whiskey didn’t come from the hotel, exactly,” he offers and it’s so infuriatingly him that she chokes out a thick noise that’s nearly laugh. Of course it didn’t, but that’s on all of them, not just him. 

Figuring out faults can wait until later, though. Right now, they need to focus on escaping. One hand shifts in the cuffs, giving her something to brace herself against so she can shake her head to free her hair. It’s an easy enough thing to reach into the thick braid she’s got, to pull out the lockpick kit that she keeps tucked there until they’re done with a mission. 

It’s only after the mission that she removes those, because they've come in useful endless times - like now. There have been too many times where they were stripped of their weapons by half-competent thugs who knew how to frisk and yet skipped a woman’s hair. 

With her hands tied above like that and her fingers not quite working as the drugs work their way out of her system she can’t help directly, but she can flick the tiny roll of tools across the room and to Napoleon. He’s better at picking locks than she or Illya are, and he manages to get them undone with minimal fussing. 

All in all, it’s a rather insulting kidnapping attempt. Gaby supposes she can’t call it an attempt as they succeeded in kidnapping them - interrogation attempt works better. Napoleon manages to get free just as the man gets into the room again, knife in hand, a cold smile on his face. She knows why - they’re both unarmed and it’s much harder to dodge a bullet or a knife, than a fist. “I will not ask how you got free,” he says and steps forward. “You will not leave here, though.” 

“Actually, I’m fairly certain you’re wrong about that,” Napoleon says, his tone almost apologetic as he circles back, puts himself in front of her. 

“I suppose they took all of your weapons?” Gaby hisses, glancing behind her for anything to use as a weapon. There’s nothing, unsurprisingly. 

“I’m afraid so.” This time, his tone really is apologetic. “I do hope I’m getting those back.” 

“I only need you for this, Napoleon Solo. The girl is expendable. In fact, the other scientists have been asking for a new disease project, we--” The doctor has just a split second to look startled before his chest explodes outward in red and he topples forward to the ground, the knife clanging loudly. She hadn’t heard any gunshots before this one, but it’s definitely Illya; either he’s snuck in or done it with his fists. Given that they were taken, he’s probably furious - fists seem most likely. 

It’s rather irritating how easily, nimbly Napoleon steps around the body, looking for all the world like he just got a bit ruffled rather than tortured, apparently, and drugged. In the doorway, Illya looks murderous, blood flecking the white of his shirt, his cheeks. In all honesty, he looks _good_ , if a little like he wants to throttle both of them.

“You did take your sweet time, didn’t you?” Napoleon undoes one of her locks and leaves her to the other - he wins points for that, really, knowing she can do it and would rather herself, and he hustles off to get their weapons. “Poor Gaby and I were going to waste away from sheer boredom.” 

“I could leave,” Illya grits out, like he would actually do it. Neither she nor Napoleon look sufficiently threatened, because he grits his teeth, jaw clenching. 

“Do we know who he is? He mentioned other scientists- if our mark is one of them--” Gaby finishes the other cuff and touches her wrists with a grimace. The skin raw and bruised already from how long she’d been hanging there. 

“He is dead. ” Illya bites out and starts rifling through the dead man’s pockets, taking this and that and finally standing, tight with tension. This isn’t easy for him, she knows that, but hopefully they’ll find something he can take down that gets him in a better mood. He’s never been this angry on a mission before, but they’re all usually their separate ways while on them. Maybe she just hasn’t had a chance to see it before.

“Well, that does make it a bit more difficult to question him,” Napoleon sighs, as if Illya’s the over-eager child who simply spilled some milk.

Mostly, she doesn’t have time to fret over it; she forces herself to walk over to the table and spies a container of water, while Napoleon does something at a desk, making a frustrated noise while he picks the locks. She’s not so foolish as to drink it, but after testing to make sure it truly is water, she pours some into her hands and splashes it over her face. It’s cold and when she licks her lips to wet them, she feels vaguely more put together. 

“How did they know we would be there-?” she starts, and then shakes her head. If it were planned - they would have had to known U.N.C.L.E’s hotel locations, or been privy to the information, infiltrated the hotel to make sure they were given a certain room and the tainted liquor, and had the vehicle ready to get them once they were knocked out. _File it away._ She can deal with this later. 

Right now, her heels clack on the ground as she takes the other side of the desk that Napoleon is rifling through and Illya covers the door, firing off two quick shots to take down men approaching. There’s a stack of paperwork in her side once she busts the lock- she catches familiar names, but stills at the sight of ` ██████████████SOLO, NAPOLEON, BLOOD TYPE -- ████ -- MATCH. Recommend further ███████████████ -- ████ of blood to be drawn, necessary to facilitate reanimation of ███████████████. Send to testing facility in ████████████, ████████████.`

There’s a slew of other information below it, but she doesn’t think; she folds it up, jams it in the front of her dress and kicks off her heels. They need to get this information out of there, but they also need to get out of the room, to ensure it gets into the right hands. “Is there a way out?” It looks like they’re in an old warehouse, the stone cold against her feet. Off to the side, Napoleon is washing his face off too, working the blood off of his lips and from under his nose where he was hit. 

“A truck. It will not start. They have toolbox.” Illya calls just as they finish taking what they need. Napoleon spares her a bloody smile for all the paperwork jammed in the front of her dress. They’ve all seen each other in a much better state, but also much worse so she takes what she can get. 

“I can do it.” Gaby kicks her heels out of the way to stalk toward the door, letting the two of them cover the doorway until they reach the truck. It’s a rusty old thing - probably has been sitting here a few weeks at the warehouse, gathering dust and rust. “The toolbox, over there,” she orders, gesturing to an equally rusted red box sitting off to the side while Napoleon stands at the doorway, hidden in the shadows, gun at the ready. Illya fetches it, spreading the tools out for her. She’s been learning Russian in her spare time, and he’s been learning tricks with vehicles. He knows what to hand her without being asked, most of the time.

She breaks off one of her nails to the point that it’s ragged and bloody, the neat nail paint ruined, but it’s ridiculous to keep them that long, anyway, mission or not. Maybe she’ll cut them all down when they get back to the hotel - they’re more trouble than they’re worth, disguises or not. 

It’s won’t be as easy as just driving out of there; whoever the men are, they swarm the place just as she gets the engine running and Illya - the idiot, the _idiot_ shoots three of them and runs out of bullets. He’s tall enough on his own, but compared to the last man standing he looks slight. She ought to worry and she does for a half second until she sees the way that Illya’s holding himself, like he’s barely leashed, waiting. “We don’t have time for this-” she calls, and surprisingly it’s Napoleon who lifts a hand, shaking his head. 

They both get into the truck just as Illya launches himself forward and despite the other man’s size, it’s over almost laughably quick. The man pulls a knife on him halfway through and Gaby realizes abruptly that Illya had been going easy on him, until that. 

“He’ll be done soon,” Napoleon says, and fastens his seatbelt neatly. 

Indeed, he’s right; Illya takes the man down painfully, but quickly. He has a slice up his stomach that bleeds through the tear in his shirt, and what promises to be a shiner tomorrow morning, but the smile he gives them both is vicious, bloody and _pleased_. He climbs into the truck gracefully and spits out the window, Napoleon sandwiched between the two of them looking miffed. “Now we go.” 

“Oh, did you hear that? We’ve Peril's permission to leave,” Napoleon chirps and has to throw his hands against the dash when she guns it. It’s worth it, just for his sour little look. 

They sneak back into the hotel like children avoiding curfew. She tries to mitigate the blood drops on the shiny marble as much as possible, dragging her bare toe against them when she spots them. Who they’re from is anyone’s guess- there’s a slice clean through Illya’s shirt that’s stained dark red against white, Napoleon looks like he’s been run through the wringer, his right arm bloodied. Her feet are aching from running over God knew what but she escaped relatively well off. After nearly missing a smear of blood from Napoleon touching the wall, she rips a piece of her already torn dress and scrubs it away. Before he can touch anything else, she hooks her arm in his and neatly shoves him into Illya. 

“ _Excuse me--?”_ Napoleon whispers, glancing between the two of them but Illya looks just as baffled. 

“Just keep him from touching the walls here so we don’t attract attention,” Gaby tells Illya; he understands in a moment, glancing at the hand damp with blood. It looks like they’d sliced into his arm during the questioning she had been out for. 

Ultimately, the night ends not unlike it started - back in the hotel room, injured and sore and exhausted. Their glasses sit on the table, untouched; Napoleon dumps the two remaining glasses down the sink and shoots them both a wry look. “Well, that was an adventure. If you don’t mind, I’m going to try and salvage this shirt.”

Napoleon claims the shower and the other two don’t try to fight him. Instead, she heads for the phone and motions Illya over. “We need to take care of that,” she says, pulling out the first aid kit from Illya’s bag. 

“Is fine.” He makes like he’s going to get up and she stops him with one small hand pressed in the center of his chest. 

“It’s not fine, sit there.” 

Evidently, the tone coupled with the look are enough to get him to obey, though not without a frustrated breath out. They do a rather impressive job of not talking about what happened before she had two glasses of drugged liquor as she pushes through the first aid as quickly as humanly possible. When he’s done and she’s allowed him to fuss over the shiner she’s sure she has, they part. She settles on the bed with the recovered documents and the phone while Illya begins going over his weapons. 

The moment she’s connected to the secure line and gives her clearance, Waverly speaks. “We heard about the doctor. I hope you recovered the documents they had, at least.” 

“I do.” She reads over what she can make out from it and while it makes no sense to her, the information seemingly useless, it clearly has worth to Waverly, judging by his long silence. “They mentioned reanimation, but-- reanimating _what_?”

Illya perks up off to the side, sidles closer to her on the bed so he can hear the answer. 

“There is a group of scientists - mostly Nazis - and soldiers we have been watching. We got wind of it on another mission. Evidently, one of these scientists claims he has Hitler in some sort of suspended state. From what we gathered, they think that whatever they have done, they need a certain blood type for this to be attempted.” Even Waverly sounds vaguely uncomfortable at the idea - not as if he believes it, but it doesn’t matter if he does. All that would matter is that the people they are trying to stop believe that, and that can be the most dangerous part of all. “We are bringing you in - all of you. There will be a flight waiting at 11 at the airstrip. Keep the paperwork so we can have our men look at it.” 

The call ends shortly after with her having more questions than answers. Illya looks similarly discomfited, which serves to make the itch of irritation under her skin all the worse.The line clicks dead on the other end and she sets the phone down with more delicateness than she’s feeling. “There’s a plane waiting for us. To New York.” 

“He knows what was in papers.” Illya guesses, though his tone is flat. It’s less of a guess and more obvious, she supposes, giving his patch-up job one more glance to ensure he’s taken care of. 

“Most likely.” She pauses a moment, nodding once she’s surveyed him. “This looks fine, assuming you don’t decide to fist fight anyone else.” 

Though, really, this could have been so much worse. Stitches, for once, and he doesn’t seem to be bleeding through. She’ll take what she can get, these days. At least bandaging was simple work, not unlike working on a car. God knows he’s just as complicated and touchy. 

The papers need put away so she rolls to her feet, only for them to remind her that it’s a terrible idea and they still ache. Teeth gritted, she shakes off the hand that touches her shoulder to check on her. She needs a shower, needs to pack and wants to be on that plane so she can sleep and feel less like she’s been through a battle.

_________________________________

It takes time for them to all freshen up but soon enough they’re showered and packed and bandaged. Gaby has out her makeup, hiding the bruise on her cheekbone where she was struck, and then does the same for Napoleon. He smells good: a little spicy aftershave and a touch soap and smiles up at her through damp, mussed hair. Another time, she could have gotten distracted between the two of them; now, she simply applies the makeup and slips away to do Illya’s, too. She’s gentler with him, fingers touching his jaw to angle him here and there so she can cover the worst of it up. The room is so quiet she thinks she can hear his father’s watch, ticking at her hip where his hand rests. “Here, look up at me” she orders gently and Illya exhales softly, moving where instructed. He looks up at her like she hangs the moon.

It’s something to think on, later. “Thank you.” His eyes go lidded, but it’s not with exhaustion. She’s seen it before in these quiet moments where they’re all alone - she thanks him, or gives an order, and sometimes he balks, fights her on it. Other times, he takes it for what it is, like he’s grateful for the direction. A glance at Napoleon verifies it’s not just her - he looks pleased, not surprised. He cocks an eyebrow but lets her finish doing the makeup.

It’s a testament to how exhausted they all are that even Napoleon doesn’t bait them; he and Illya exchange half-hearted jabs as they board their flight, but that’s it. Mostly, they just stare blankly at the seats when they board, too exhausted for more. The paperwork is clutched securely in her purse, Russian _and_ American tracking sewn in the lining of it, just for good measure, and then they’re off for New York. 

“I for one am rather excited to see this place,” Napoleon says after he charms one of the stewardesses into a drink - and then a second, for Gaby, because apparently neither of them have learned from their prior attempts at imbibing. 

By the window, Illya looks fit to be tied, but doesn’t verbally object because U.N.C.L.E chartered this flight and they all know if they aren’t safe there, then there isn’t much to say. She’s reminded of the hotel, the fact that they were set up so neatly, and wonders how much truth there is to the logic of _U.N.C.L.E would know._

“Dropping hints, being coy about things - it’s enough to drive someone up a wall. I honestly bet it’s a shoebox. Maybe they’ve stenciled on U.N.C.L.E. so it looks official.” Napoleon finishes; she’s missed half of what he said, but it doesn’t matter, she can extrapolate. 

What he says is true, too.. Waverly’s been making noises about a headquarters stationed in New York, but they’ve all been too busy to go. Apparently, whatever they’ve stepped in takes precedence over what was supposed to be their trip next week. She’s too tired to be curious, though. They’ll be in New York soon. After she eats a little bit of the breakfast they serve, a little bit of the drink she’s given, she’s out like a light, listening to the low rumble of Illya’s voice as he catches Napoleon up on what happened while they were out and kidnapped. 

She’s distantly aware that one of them - she’s not certain who, takes the glass and plate of food out of the way and helps her get sleeping in a position that won’t hurt her neck too badly. There’s a blanket draped over her shoulders, tucked in and then nothing but an uneasy sleep.

When she wakes, they’re in New York. She’s slept through the break they’d taken, not even sure which country they landed in to refuel. It doesn’t matter; they make their way to the hotel they’re put up in for the night and after staring blankly at the streets of downtown, Napoleon makes noises about getting food delivered to the room and that’s that. 

They plod sleepily into the entryway and once they’re in the room, Gaby doesn’t think twice. She toes off the simple shoes she’d been wearing to be kind to the scraped, bruised bottoms of her feet and manages to get as far as setting her bag down before she crawls blearily onto the bed. Sleeping during the flight was like sleeping not at all; the prospect of having a real bed underneath her is too good to be true. 

“The bathroom.” Illya closes the door behind them, gesturing to it. 

“It’s all yours,” Napoleon drawls and she catches sight of a mocking little bow as he lets Illya have that first. She leaves it alone - as far as baiting goes, it’s weak. Instead, she forces her arms to work and pushes herself up on the bed enough to sit up. As soon as she vacates the spot, it takes barely a second for Napoleon to take her place sprawled out over it, staring up at the ornate ceiling. “They took my blood. I’ve had a lot of things happen while out, but that’s...well, a first. Illya says that they think it’s because they have...what? A corpse? Frozen, and they think blood will fix that?” 

Said out loud, it makes just as little sense as one would expect. Gaby shrugs and it really says everything in that one movement. It seems just as insane to her as it did to him. “Waverly said he would explain more once we met.”

With Illya in the bathroom, she gets up so she can go to her suitcase and take a pair of pajamas to change into. The look he gives her is mostly for show - a little quirk of his lips and a once-over, but for Napoleon that’s positively innocent so they both let it slide. She’s still wearing her makeup, but she knows they all look tired. “Most of the paperwork was scratched out, but Waverly didn’t seem surprised, when I called,” she offers after a moment, settling on the bed once more. 

“I’m certain we’ll find out what they’re up to soon enough,” Napoleon seems terribly sure of himself despite the fact that the inside of his elbow is black and blue with bruises and they’re all a little worse for wear. Still, it eats at him; she can tell by the way he gives the paperwork buried in her purse little looks, the way his fingers press against the bruises at the corner of his elbow.

Illya slips out a few moments later in nothing but a loose pair of sleeping pants, his shirt folded in his hands. Out of the three of them, he looks the least like he’s gone through the wringer if you ignore the slice on his chest. He’s bandaged it as well as can be done and slips on his shirt once he’s out of the washroom. There’s still that tension inside of him, like there’s something scratching, clawing at him from the inside and his skin isn’t enough to keep it contained, but it’s lessened, after what he got to do.

Out of the three of them, he’s the one who needs an outlet the most often and doesn’t get it. 

For Gaby, it’s machines, losing herself under the hood of them, elbow deep in its inner workings. For Napoleon, well, it’s women, drinking and sleeping togther, though there’s the sobering realization that since this has started - whatever _this_ is, it’s just women and drinking. There’s no bringing them back to the room, even when their rooms are separate. Maybe he thinks that they haven’t noticed but both of them have. They’re just not sure what to do with it and Gaby finds she doesn’t have enough balls to bring it up. For Illya, it’s fighting. It’s getting his knuckles bruised and bloodied, in causing trouble where there doesn’t need to be any. She’s still not certain how to deal with that.

They’re all exhausted and washing up seems to take forever, getting ready for bed longer still, but once it’s done...well. Nothing really happens. She tries to fall asleep but she’s too wired to actually do so. Illya is on his back, straight as a board; she thinks he’s probably staring at the ceiling, not actually sleeping. Napoleon is the only one of them who doesn’t seem like he’s going to rattle out of his skin, but it’s only because he lies in bed a half moment and then gives up, rolling right back out. 

“Where are you-?” Gaby starts, and then stops, because of course he would go for the liquor cabinet, _of course he would._ Illya makes a derisive sound behind her, proving he really is awake and starts to shift up until he’s got his back pressed against the pillows and headboard and can watch. 

“Third time’s the charm, isn’t that it?” Napoleon says, utterly unashamed and for once doesn’t pour something dark and amber - no, it looks like vodka, which is a terrible idea but it’s not as if she’s sleeping anyway and they’ve already eaten. 

If there’s something to get her to sleep before this meeting in the morning, well, she’s not going to protest too terribly much. Maybe someday they’ll learn not to drink everything in sight without finding some way to test it, but if U.N.C.L.E. is compromised, then it doesn’t really matter, does it. 

“Come on, Chop-Shop, don’t make me drink alone,” Napoleon sighs out Illya’s nickname for her and pours her a drink too. She’s given up all pretense of trying to sleep; instead, she sits up with her back to the headboard as well and takes the cup. They talk about nothing in particular for a while; she doesn’t drink until it’s proven that the glass is safe, and no one comes into the room.

When she drinks this time, there’s no red line of lipstick against the cup, just a smudge of fingerprints and nothing else. Illya’s eyes cut over as he watches them drink, watches the long line of Napoleon’s throat, the curl of her fingers over the glass. He looks hungry, not thirsty. “At least it isn’t scotch.”

“Yes, drink. Last time went well.” Maybe it’s sleep or residual anger banging around inside him that makes Illya’s voice roll his syllables thick, the Russian accent heavy on his tongue. Either way, it makes her shiver, makes Napoleon’s eyes linger a touch longer than strictly necessary, on both of them. 

They never did address what happened in the hotel room - what’s happened multiple times in the hotel room. Gaby draws her tongue over her bottom lip and mulls it over, and realizes that Illya isn’t mad at them, exactly. He was angry, but if not at them, then...

It clicks into place a moment later; he has a horrible temper, yes, but the murderous look on his face when he’d found them cornered by the man with the knife- that look was only visible once he saw the state they were in. It was protective, almost - twisted and turned wrong because Illya’s been treated too poorly by the KGB and life in general for it to be _healthy_ , but she realizes what it is all the same. He was mad because he was worried about them. 

“We’re fine.” The words slip out of her before she can stop them, but she doesn’t take them back. Her head tilts up, looking up at Illya, his shoulder touching hers while they sit on the bed. “We’re all fine, Illya.” 

“Varying degrees of fine, but not entirely a lie,” Napoleon says from across the room, digging something out of one of his bags. He pulls it out with a victorious little noise and tosses them onto the bed with a cocked eyebrow. They’re cards - beaten to hell and back, but cards nonetheless. Better than chess, which is only a two person game, she supposes. Later, she’ll think about the fact that they really ought to talk about these things if they want to keep being a team. Later, she’ll bring up that Illya needs to find an outlet for his anger and that they really need to start testing things before they drink them. 

Now, though. Now, she and Napoleon are three cups deep, the three of them sprawled out on the bed gracelessly. Her feet - clean, thankfully, are in Napoleon’s lap, where he’d dragged them at the start of the second game. She almost protested at first, but ended up finding it swallowed down when he’d cupped her foot in one large hand and started massaging, working his fingers into the ache of them. His hands were ridiculously good, or maybe she was ridiculously sore. Either way, she melts into the bed and tosses a Joker down, giving them both a slow, warm smile from where she’s a puddle on the bed. “That’s game, boys.”

 _”She cheats_ ,” she hears Illya mutter when she wins again. 

“Everyone cheats but you, comrade,” Napoleon says cheerfully, and tosses down three aces to win just as the game gets started. “That’s why you keep losing.”

Illya looks appropriately annoyed and the next few games go on as usual, more casual rules as the night goes on.

Somehow, they shift; Gaby winds up draped in Illya’s lap, her head pillowed on his thigh while Napoleon creeps his hands up from her feet, over her ankles and further. It’s not as if she doesn’t _notice_. She does- Illya does, too, but he doesn’t say anything, probably because he trusts her to lift her other foot and kick Napoleon in the face if he goes too far. The only question is, what’s too far? In this moment, she’s almost entirely certain that _nothing_ is. Napoleon’s hand creeps up, a line of warmth until it reaches her knees and then lifts, letting the material of her pants sink back down from where he rucked them up to her knee. Before they can crush them, she gathers up all of the cards and winds the band back around them, letting them fall to the ground. 

“Well, I can think of one way to help people sleep,” he offers, and Gaby rolls her eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t roll right out of her head. 

“Of course.” Illya mutters before she can, his fingers pressed lightly against her arm. The soft, steady taptaptap isn’t angered this time, it’s something else. He’s waiting, maybe, waiting to see how this goes. Her main concern at this point is making certain that he understands that he’s invited, that he’s _welcome_. They don’t work if it’s just one or two of them off on their own, for all that the two of them insist they work better alone. 

“Any takers?” Napoleon asks and shifts on the bed, climbing up to his hands and knees and braces himself over her until he’s nearly face to face with Illya. She can look up at them from where she lies, watching their faces but it lasts only a moment before Napoleon turns his attention down to her, giving her plenty of time to say _no_. He’s a bastard, though, and stops when he’s just an inch away from a kiss, head tilting to look up at Illya. She doesn’t need to hear him speak to know he’s going to say something stupid, so she leans up and kisses him hard before he can manage it. 

They’re both injured - split lips and black eyes galore, but that doesn’t stop him from shifting and tilting into it, breathing a sigh out against her lips. One of her hands reaches behind her awkwardly, searching until she finds Illya’s wrist and curls her fingers around it, strokes her hand on top of his until the fist he has resting on the bed melts into his palm lying flat. 

When they finally break the kiss, she’s panting shallowly and Napoleon's eyes are a shade darker, kiss swollen lips curled in a smug little smile. Really, he’s going to be unbearable so she looks up at Illya and jerks her gaze to Napoleon's arm. Once she has his attention there, she drops her legs apart to hook a foot around one of Napoleon’s. “Can you help?” she murmurs in Russian rather than German or English, endlessly pleased that all it takes are three little words for Illya to get her meaning. 

He inclines his head just a touch and Napoleon opens his mouth to ask, but finds himself toppled laughably easy when she and Illya flip him. They send him thudding against the mattress with an undignified squawk, all jumbled limbs and tousled hair. It’s not a bad look for him - the indignance is particularly good. “Thank you.”

“I’m fine, thank you for checking,” Napoleon grouses from the bed, stretched out and waiting for the both of them. One final check to see if Illya’s alright with this and then she moves, planting both hands on Napoleon’s shoulders. She is careful to avoid bruises for the moment - there’s plenty of time for mixing pain and pleasure another night. Right now, she starts working on the buttons to Napoleon’s shirt with one hand, the other curling in Illya’s collar so she can tug him in sharply and press a kiss to his mouth. Her lips part instantly, letting him lick the taste of the other man off her lips. He makes a low noise of approval into the kiss, and when she deepens it, she notices he only tastes like the mint of the toothpaste. . 

“Another hand, unless you’re busy.” Gaby motions to Napoleon, splayed out for them both underneath her and waits. In a lot of ways, it’s a test. One night of exhausted, half-drunken fumbling doesn’t have to mean something, but while she and Napoleon have both _had_ drinks, this is something that would have happened without them. A beat, a breath, waiting for Illya to decide if he’s staying or going and then he leans in, his teeth bared in a smile.

“What should I do?” he asks, and she feels Napoleon shudder underneath her. 

Oh, she can work with this.

_________________________________

They end up with Napoleon watching while Illya’s got his face buried against her thigh. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses with a touch of teeth to sensitive skin and murmurs something under his breath. She’s not fluent enough in Russian to grasp it fully yet, but the tone, the rumble of it against her skin is enough to make her squirm. He uses just enough teeth and bites hard enough that she thinks about telling him _gentler, softer_.

He stops every time she draws breath to do it, keeping her on the edge of too much and just right. He’d done the same with her breasts, earlier, and they’re flushed dark and are hypersensitive. A bruise is starting to form on the top of one of them; if she looks later, she knows it will match his teeth.. She’ll have to adjust her dresses for something that makes sure to hide that. 

For a moment, she worries that he’ll forget himself and somehow use teeth on more sensitive areas, but that quickly proves to not be a concern. The first time he brings her, it’s with his mouth and two fingers, blue eyes focused on her face at first and then flicker between looking at her and Napoleon. Napoleon slips in between her and the bed as she’s shivering the end of her orgasm, his hands dragging from her hips to her breasts. 

He teases his fingers at her nipples, laughing low and warm into the curve of her throat when she arches, whining. The second time she comes is like that: sandwiched between the two of them, her legs splayed wide with Illya between them and Napoleon behind, the two of them working like a well-oiled machine to anticipate each other, to work off of the other’s movements. 

On a mission, it means success. 

Here, it means that they can gang up on her more effectively. Illya grasps her hips and holds her while Napoleon winds an arm around her shoulders to hold her in place while she squirms and rolls her hips up. The other hand drops from her breasts down to Illya’s hair, where it hesitates a moment and then cards through it. It means that they hold her still while Illya rolls her through to her third orgasm. Her hips jerk helplessly, shoulders pulling when her back arches but they’ve got her too firmly for her to escape and somehow that makes it even hotter, makes a moan spill out of her throat.. The noise she makes when he lifts his head once he’s done is positively wrecked and she shivers visibly against the steadiness of Napoleon’s body. 

Only a dead person wouldn’t respond to sort of reaction; Napoleon lets out a huff of air behind her and he and Illya give her a moment to recover. They let her sink back into the sheets breathlessly, which she appreciates, but she only loses it all over again when Illya leans in and kisses the other man hard enough that she thinks she hears teeth clack together. 

That has to hurt at least a little bit, but neither of them seem to notice, pushing at each other like they aren’t sure if they want the other to get closer or to try and shove the other one down. She lets it go for a while, still getting feeling back into her legs and then rolls over to press up against Napoleon’s back. Her nails rake lightly down his front just hard enough that he stills, letting her hand cup his dick and start stroking lightly. 

“She got back up awfully quick, didn’t she,” Napoleon asks, because even during sex he’s a bastard. Illya catches the meaning and his face gets that careful blank that she knows to recognize now, so she handles it - literally, in this case, squeezing his dick. “Ah, point taken. I’m _absolutely_ certain I can’t do any better.” 

“Doubtful you could,” Illya says and then his hand joins hers on top of Napoleon’s dick, guiding it to go a little tighter, a little faster. It’s not quite as good dry, but judging from the choked little noise that Napoleon makes in the back of his throat, he doesn’t much care. His head tilts back and his throat is bared, leaving plenty of room for Illya to work, biting and sucking kisses along the tan line of it, scraping his teeth along the tendons standing out stark against his skin while he trembles between them. 

Napoleon’s hands are softer than Illya’s, she realizes, feeling them skim over her skin - they don’t catch like Illya’s do. Differences in lives lived, because Napoleon hasn’t been in this business as long - at least not to the same extent that Illya has. 

The war, his country, the demands of both - they’ve worn him down until he doesn’t have many soft spots left, until he’s rough around the edges, angry and bristling. Gaby savors the soft spots he has left, physical and nonphysical: the slow curve of his smile when he has a warm breakfast that’s particularly good. The way he touches both of them while he’s on watch and thinks they’re asleep, just a brush of fingers to reassure himself they’re still there, still breathing. Physically, the curve of his hip, one side with a thick scar that curves up to his belly, and the roughness of his hands. For a man who’s lived a life as hard as he has, that there’s any softness left makes her want to shield it, to protect it. Admittedly, feeling of fondness often that turns to irritation - she wants to smack him again, wants to shove him back and demand to know what he’s doing, but those moments are falling fewer and further between. 

They respond to different things, too, she’s learning. Napoleon, contrary, smug bastard that he is, likes a bit of surprise teeth and nails every so often. She’s caught him more than once touching a mark either she or Illya left, cutting them a smile that’s borderline filthy to anyone who knows what’s going on, and just a little suspicious to anyone who doesn’t. He likes a little burn with what they do, likes reminders. She makes sure to leave plenty this time, close to the bruises that he has already from their adventure in kidnapping earlier, like if she leaves enough, it’ll erase what happened. 

Illya, on the other hand, bites and scratches and fights them every step of the way just as much as she does. That’s always got the potential for fun, but one of her favorite things is the way he responds so beautifully when she kisses gently, him, eases him down and curls a hand in his hair and says _good_. 

When she gets Illya on his knees after they’ve made Napoleon melt back into the covers with combined efforts in teasing, she watches, worries, waits - this thing they have is too tentative, too new to be done entirely right. One of them is going to botch it up somewhere, but surprisingly, tonight is not that night. 

Napoleon pulls his punches, as it were and Gaby’s grateful. He sprawls out on the bed, legs spread wide enough that Illya can slide in between them while kneeling. She’s certain he doesn’t miss the way that Gaby slides up behind Illya’s back to hold him while he works. This is still new to all of them, but it’s exciting, her pulse in her throat as Illya bites a mark against Napoleon’s hip just to watch the skin flare white and then red, promising to bruise. “Don’t move,” he murmurs, and Gaby shivers at the promise in those words. She settles in beside him, stroking her hands over the long line of Illya’s naked back, tracing down to his ass just to watch him shiver, to glare at her for distracting him. She’d fold against his back if she could, but she’s not tall enough to get far with that position. The tip of her nose would only reach somewhere around his shoulder blades, but it doesn’t matter. Like this, she can watch his lips part, she watches Napoleon feed his cock in, watches the way that Illya groans around it, greedy.

He goes down on Napoleon like he does everything else - thinly veiled tension humming under his skin, the soft, steady _taptaptap_ against Napoleon’s hip. “Take your sweet time,” Napoleon drawls and makes a choked noise when Illya apparently decides that he’s had quite enough of his words. 

Unsurprisingly, she’s quickly finding that Napoleon is easiest to shut up during times like this; stretched out on the bed like a bounty for them, his cock a thick line curved against his belly, smearing precome all over it while Illya tests to see what he likes. No teeth this close to his cock, she learns, but he does like a hand at his balls, makes an interesting noise when Illya’s fingers dip down behind them on accident. That’s something she can file away for later, the idea of getting him incoherent and worked up around her fingers is something she likes quite a bit.

Her attention gets drawn back to Napoleon, tracking the rhythm that he rolls up into Illya’s mouth, the soft, strained grunt when he gets close and the way he’s near silent as he comes, spilling in thick pulses over his belly rather than in Illya’s mouth. She’s not sure if it’s distaste or something else but doesn’t question it, she just fetches a towel from the bathroom. Illya uses it to clean up most of the mess while Napoleon catches his breath and drags his fingers down his own cock, stroking and groaning quietly, putting on a show even now. “That wasn’t terrible. Did they teach you that in the-” and he stops, just like that when her nails dig into his hips while Illya is mopping up the mess. Realization slides over his face a moment later - maybe not the best to bring up a sensitive subject, especially so nonchalantly. . 

Some of the ease has bled out of Illya; he’s hiding behind that blank face again, looking between the two of them like he’s weighing his words. He’s _trying_ to behave but really, really not wanting to. “That was - unkind of me,” Napoleon says, just as her fingernails dig harder into his thigh. He takes the hint, being as graceful about it as he can and it works. They’re able to touch him, to chase the darkness out of his expression. Unlike Napoleon, he doesn’t try to put on a show. They wind up with him on his back, Gaby in his lap with her hand stroking him. Normally, that wouldn’t be enough to get him off so quickly, but her fingers are slick from between her thighs - a suggestion courtesy of Napoleon, but not a bad one. 

Between the two of them kissing him fiercely, he doesn’t get much of a chance to breathe or warn about his impending orgasm. When he comes, it’s with his fingers digging bruises into her skin before he catches himself and grips the sheets instead. This isn’t a sharpness sort of night, so instead of baiting him, she sinks against him, sticky skin to sticky skin, and tells him how lovely he looks while he and Napoleon kiss each other stupid.

_________________________________

When it’s done, cleaning up is less a romantic affair and more a necessity. Secrecy is something they all value, so they take turns in the bathroom once more, for the men to shower off and Gaby to clean up, rinsing off makeup and sweat alike.

She’s the last one out and Napoleon’s already at one side of bed, watching Illya move about the room in just a pair of pants. He has a smile that could put the Cheshire Cat to shame, especially when Illya turns and paces the other direction.

“Move over.” Gaby steals middle of the bed, mostly because the two of them have this rather infuriating habit of never letting her take the one closest to the door. It’s either the inside and between them, or it’s the side closest to a wall, so whoever comes in the door goes through one of them first and the other can do backup. It isn’t that they don’t trust her to do backup; she’s proven herself over and over, but it’s something else, something that Illya can’t articulate and that Napoleon _won’t_ , because he’s a stubborn when he needs to be. She picks her battles, though, and this isn’t one she wants to try. 

Illya doesn’t argue taking the side closest to the door; he puts on his shirt (a shame, but necessary for his comfort, maybe) and finishes his prowling about the room. His broad shoulders are tense under the shirt, but he’s not too worked up to function - the fight, and the sex apparently were enough. Sometimes, he and Napoleon fight over who sleeps where, but tonight, Illya gives them both a challenging look and Napoleon waves it away nonchalantly. He’s already in his part of the bed and doesn’t mind. Evidently, a tumble in the sheets is enough to make him semi-agreeable with minimal amounts of violence. Good to know. 

“I’ll gladly let you be the one they take a swing at first, that sounds fine to me,” he drawls and folds himself in one side of the bed, the other half of the parentheses to her own. He smells faintly of soap and just a little of sweat but more than anything else, he smells familiar. Gaby’s not sure when these two ended up feeling a little like home these last few months, but she gets the same comforting feeling curling up in bed these days as she did from being under a car, hands and face streaked in grease. 

Illya gives the room one more pass and tapes knives under two of the desks, against the side of one of the chairs and puts a gun on the bedside table. It’s excessive, but neither of them argue as he slides into bed without disturbing either of them. He’s a cool line against her body, the three of them pressed too close for her to not be hyper aware of them, but she does her best to turn her mind off and _sleep_. There will be later for dissecting every individual moment; right now, she can hear the scratch of bandages against Illya’s tshirt, can hear the little intake of breath as Napoleon shifts wrong and irritates one of the bruises she’s seen flowering under the edges of his clothing. Right now, they try to sleep. 

She has gives herself a few moments to try and match her breathing to theirs before she’s out all over again, exhaustion winning over any desire to stay up and keep watch, to trace the line of bruises she can see trailing down Napoleon’s throat.

_________________________________

Waking the next morning is an exercise all on its own. The sun beats down through the curtains they’d forgotten to close, hot and overwhelming. It’s exacerbated by the fact that she’s tangled so far in sheets and bodies that she can’t tell where she starts and the other one ends. There’s a long line of warmth behind her, and the soft, steady puff of breath against the curve of her shoulder that indicates someone asleep behind her. A moment of consideration places it as Illya, and she tracks one of his arms to underneath them, both herself and Napoleon lying on it like a pillow. The other spans her hip, fingers dipped low over her belly; she’s never more aware of how large he is than moments like this, where she looks at the splay of it over her hip and shivers, imagining all sorts of things.

Napoleon’s on the other side, his leg kicked over onto Illya’s side of the bed, foot hooked around one of his, his thigh trapped between both of hers. His hand is somewhere - she can’t quite tell, but they’ll obviously find it sooner or later. Right now, she’s far too distracted with finding her own hand and then lifting it, placing it on top of Illya’s. They’re ridiculously large - she ought to think laughably so, but instead, there’s something appealing about it, how big they are. Why-? She’s not certain of that, but mulls the question over.

It comes to her a moment later when her eyes trace the line of his wrist, the smooth skin broken only by the dark leather of his wrist watch. _Don’t you make me put you over my knee._ Yes, that would do it.Her breathing shifts and she has to force herself to keep steady against the sudden roll of heat through her belly. She hadn’t dared think about it much then, but now, sandwiched between them with Napoleon’s ridiculously long lashes against his cheek and Illya’s body tucked up into hers protectively, well. There’s half a moment to think - to consider those big hands sliding over skin instead of cloth, to think about how they’d look on Napoleon’s skin while he rumbles _cowboy_ , low and dark. She’s not certain if she’d like to see him take Napoleon over his knee more than she wants to be turned over his knee or not. 

She can consider it later; right now, Illya’s hand shifts under hers, pulling away so he can twist it palm up in invitation. She’s not certain how long he’s been awake, but guesses since she woke up; men like him and Napoleon don’t stay alive as long as they do by being unobservant.

Now that she’s awake and listening for it, she notices the shift in his breathing. Before, it was steady and slow, yes, but there were slight hitches, little things that broke it up. Now, she’s aware of the tension thrumming through his body, the signs that scream _awake_ without her needing to hear him breathe.

Gaby hesitates a moment too long and his hand flips, curls with its fingers folded up in a fist on her hip. It’s not an aggressive movement, it’s a resigned one; she’s made her choice and he doesn’t dispute it, but the problem is that _isn’t_ what’s happened. Her eyes close and she takes a moment to breathe, to clear her head and then when she opens them, she sees Napoleon’s eyes slitted, his lips curled in a sated smirk despite the early hour. Lovely, they’re both awake and it might be her that ruins this despite all her worries about Napoleon being the one. Napoleon’s eyes flick from her face to Illya’s hand and he cocks an eyebrow - for all that the man loves to hear himself talk, this part doesn’t need words. 

“My arm’s gone to sleep, if you don’t mind,” Napoleon says, and Gaby shivers at the way his voice is low, rumbly with sleep, deep in his chest. The little grin that flashes over his face says he noticed that she noticed and he’s painfully smug for a moment. There’s shifting on the bed to accommodate his request, though, and once it’s freed he lifts his hand up and drops it not on her waist, but on Illya’s hand. It’s an anchor of sorts; it keeps her moored between the two of them, but it also stops Illya from rolling out of bed, keeps him stuck on there with them. “Much better. In a few weeks, maybe you’ll even be housetrained, Peril.” 

The peace lasts longer than she anticipated. Illya’s breathing shifts again and his hand opens; she has a moment to think _good_ before he fits himself tight up against her back ( _better_ , her mind offers) and then he plants a hand firmly against Napoleon’s chest and _pushes_.

Napoleon goes clattering off the bed in a graceless spill of naked limbs and loud noises, taking the sheets with him but leaving the comforter. Like she’s read his mind, Gaby reaches down and gropes for the comforter and tugs it it up around the two of them. All that Napoleon can make out from his position is the wiggle of her fingers over the edge of the bed.

“Feel free to wash first, cowboy,” Illya rumbles from behind her, and she can hear it in his words that he’s smiling, even if it’s hidden. 

Napoleon dumps the sheets on their heads like the mature, grown man he is, and heads off to shower, though he does cast the bed one more long look, openly admiring. It might be covered in blankets, but he knows what’s underneath - there’s no way he won't admire that. “Make sure he doesn’t make a mess on the covers,” he calls, and hears the sound of what’s probably his shoe hitting the bathroom door just as he closes it. _Good_. 

Teasing done, he washes up. 

They’ve got work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> ????????????????????????
> 
> There may be a chapter two but this is intended to stand on its own; mentions of a leak within UNCLE are an excuse for me to follow up on it, but it's hopefully not so huge that people are like "NO WHY DIDN'T THIS GET FINISHED." I still seriously cannot believe there's an episode based around reanimating Hitler; please read the episode summaries for this show. They are delightful. Also please let me know if you noticed anything off. I'm afraid to even look at this thing tbh, it's been so long since I've written anything.
> 
> Also, the title comes from the way episodes were titled in the show. SO YEAH. 
> 
> If you're bored, follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/SarahKFetter) and listen to me yell about fictional characters and making fandom merch.


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